Fleeting
by wendythemoustache
Summary: "I wondered who he was, why he had really knocked on my door, why that photograph had troubled him so. I sighed sharply. I would probably never even know. I would probably never see him again. But somewhere, deep inside me, I wished that I did." Bucky/OC, post-TWS.


_Hello guys!  
>So, this is my new story.<br>I know I am far from finished with Northern Wind, but I wanted to give this one a shot anyway.  
>I am publishing the first chapter to see what you guys think... and if you like it, I will publish some more.<br>So please, share your thoughts with me, if you like it or hate it.  
>Thank you, and I hope you enjoy.<br>Mari x  
>ps: everything belongs to marvel, except juliet.<br>_

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><p><strong>chapter one<strong>

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><p>The first thing I remember is the rain. It fell straight and heavy from the grey sky, without rest, for the whole day. It was one of those first fall days, the ones during which you realize you'll need to put on more than just a shirt to go outside, and regret not wearing gloves while waiting for the bus early in the morning. It was a day of rain boots and scarves, of trembling fingers and damp hair. I went straight home from the school after classes ended; the weather made me feel gloomy and sleepy and all I wanted was to cook myself a good meal and maybe watch a movie. The subway was full of people, as always, and I walked home from the stop with the odd feeling that I was being watched. I shrugged the impression off my shoulders quickly; I was probably just a little paranoid.<p>

The day had not been particularly eventful, as had been the last few months – I was at a point in my life where I found everything a bit dull, where I just wanted to drive away and leave everything behind but never actually got and did it. I was tired of New York, I was tired of my job, but I couldn't see myself do anything else – or maybe I just didn't have the guts to do something about it. I was a coward. I floated in a cloud of contradictions and regrets and self-consciousness and disappointments, but I was settled, comfortable in my quiet, lonely little bubble of a life. I was content, in my own way. Of course, that was before I met Bucky.

He came into my life in the simplest way; by knocking on my door.

I had been in the middle of reheating the leftovers of a lasagna my mother had made me the week before when I heard the knocking. It was not insistent, nor determined. It was almost shy, quiet. I never got any visit from anyone except my parents or sometimes the UPS guy, so I frowned. The first were on a trip to California for their anniversary, and I didn't expect any mail from the latter. So I hesitated before settling down my fork and my plate and walking slowly towards the door. I tried a tentative "Hello ?" just in case the mystery might solve itself, but there was no answer from behind the wooden door, so I just had to twist the handle and open it.

He was quite a sight, I can recall it very clearly. He looked exhausted and famished and lost, but he had that thing about him that made me shiver right on the spot – some sort of intimidating, frightening quality about his stature. His eyes were dark and impossible to read, which made him a immediate mystery I wanted to solve. He was all in black, his hair hidden under a cap, and he was tall – much taller than me, and very buff, which made me feel kind of tiny. An insect he could crush. There was no smile on his face; he only frowned when he saw me. I didn't quite know what to say. Certainly he wasn't here to sell something, no, nothing like that. I remained silent for a few seconds, unsure of what my next move should be. He too was silent, and the awkwardness that followed urged me to speak.

"Can I help you ?" I uttered in a voice that I wanted to be confident, however it came out pretty quiet and shy. He frowned again, as if he didn't know the answer to my question, before he cleared his throat, shuffled on his feet and opened his mouth. "Huh, I'm looking for Connie. Connie Emerson." My jaw dropped slightly before I could register his words. I stared at him just to make sure he wasn't making some sort of joke. But he was serious, more than serious, and it dropped a weight in my chest, making my heart suddenly feel very heavy.

Me and my grandma had been very close. She had been there at every moment, until the very day she died. She was the one that told me bedtime stories, she was the one that taught me how to cook, she was the one that wiped my tears when I had my first heartbreak, she was the one who took my picture at my graduation from high school, and my graduation from college. I loved her so hard, and her death had shattered me to the very core. It still seemed to puncture my lungs when I heard her name, and she had passed nearly two years ago. So when that man, that curious, strange man asked for her, it threw back me to that dreadful moment in the hospital room, and I had to fight against every muscle in my body to refrain from shutting the door without another word.

"This is her house, right ?" he asked, and I nodded. "Why are you looking for her ?" I said, my voice trembling slightly. The man frowned, his dark eyes travelling from me to the ground. "I'd like to speak to her" he answered, and his voice felt so sincere it was my turn to frown. How could she know her ? He seemed far too young for… for everything, really. Maybe he worked at the hospital where she had spent the last weeks of her life. But then, he would know she had passed. "Huh – I'm sorry, but she passed away. About two years ago." His eyes flickered back to my face as soon as I spoke the words. He looked truly shocked, his eyes widening slightly, and I realized that they were a pale, bright shade of blue. I flinched. Even though I wanted anything but to speak of Grams, the distress in his traits made me want to help the stranger. "I'm sorry – I'm her granddaughter, maybe I can help you ?"

Then he seemed to look at me, to truly look at me. It made me feel a little uneasy, but his stare was not harsh – it was curious, and even shy, perhaps. "You're her granddaughter ?" he said, and I realized that he was smiling. I stared back at him, observing the small, almost invisible smirk on his lips. He nodded, like he had just understood something, turned on his heels and started walking away in the harsh, cold rain.

I stood in the doorway for a few seconds, dumbfounded, before I moved again and did the one thing that changed my life forever.

"Hey, wait !" I yelled as I stepped outside, ignoring the rain. "Do you want to come in ? I mean – to wait for the rain to stop." I didn't really understand why I did it. Maybe I already felt drawn to him. But it was something stronger than me that made me step outside like that, and invite a complete and honestly quite terrifying stranger in my home. He stopped walking, and turned to stare at me for a few seconds before he quickly jogged back. I stepped inside, leaving the door open for him. And like that, he was in my apartment, soaking wet, frowning at me like I was the weirdest thing he had ever seen. "Thank you" he muttered, his voice low and unsure. I smiled a little. "Sure. Do you want a towel ?"

He nodded quietly, and I turned around to walk to the bathroom. What had gotten into me, suddenly ? I didn't know why I was doing all of this, but it felt like it was the right thing to do. I grabbed the first towel I saw and walked back to the door. He had removed his cap to reveal dark hair pulled in a messy bun behind his head. I wondered what color it was when it wasn't wet – was it still this dark, or maybe lighter ? I handed him the towel, and he nodded in acknowledgment, passing it on his face and neck. I didn't look away, like I couldn't. "I'm Juliet, by the way – what's your name ?" He stopped moving for an instant, his eyes grounded to the floor. "James" he replied, swiftly and with a hint of hesitation, as if he wasn't sure. I nodded, deciding not to push it further, and took the towel when he handed it to me. There was a moment where neither of us moved or talked, and I shuffled awkwardly, clearing my throat quietly.

"How – how did you know Connie ?" I asked, planting my eyes into his. He pushed his hands into the pockets of his soaking wet jacket. "I knew her during the war." I blinked, unsure of how to react. The war ?! But before I could ask, the stranger spoke again. "I mean – my, huh, my grandfather knew her during the war, he – he asked for her. I think they were – close, maybe, I don't know. He's confused." It seemed to me like all of this babbling was a huge lie he had just invented, but it was still more probable to me than the first thing he had said, so I nodded and smiled a little. "I see. I'm sorry to deliver the news." "It's okay" he said, and I could see him looking around, taking in his surroundings.

My apartment was quite modest, and quite small. The walls were of an obligatory pale beige, and I had tried to add some color by installing a few plants there and there, and some paintings that my mother did for me. We were standing in the living room, and we could see the small kitchen ahead, and the corridor that lead to the bathroom, the office and my bedroom. I liked the place, it was cozy and not too expensive, but it did feel lonely at times. I couldn't even have a pet.

"You know, I think I have a few photo albums of her, if you want to… I mean, show some to your grandfather." The man – James, I learned to call him – seemed to like the idea. "Sure, okay" he said. "Okay" I muttered. I quickly reached the office, where I had stored all the boxes I had inherited at Grams' death. I had a dozen of them, filled with photo albums and souvenirs and cherished belongings. My parents didn't want them, neither did my brother or the rest of the family – so it was either me or the garbage container.

I knew exactly where to look to find the photo albums from the time around the war. I had spent an entire weekend browsing through her stuff to organize everything. I had thrown away what was useless or broken, and I had kept the rest. Most of it, really. I grabbed the box that was labelled "Photo Albums : 1930 – 1960" and walked back to the living room. James was still standing straight in the middle of the room, but he was observing something – a framed photo of me and Gramps, a few months before she started getting really sick. I settled the heavy box on the sofa, and the sound seemed to bring him back to reality, as if he had been lost in his own thoughts. Acknowledging my presence, he pointed the photograph. "Is this her ?" he asked. "Yeah. Her 91th birthday. We all thought it was a miracle." I smiled at the thought. It had been a beautiful day. One of the last.

"Anyway" I sighed. "This is what I could find. Do you want to sit ?" I raised my eyes when he didn't answer. He looked uncomfortable. "Well, I would, but – my clothes…" "Oh, right" I chuckled. His clothes were still quite wet from the rain, and he probably didn't want to dampen my sofa. How considerate. I stood to grab the towel from earlier, and laid it on the fabric so he could sit without any problem. He nodded sharply, and we sat down side to side. It was weird to not have to look at him from below. I could see his face really well now. His skin was pale, his cheeks a little hollow, and he looked like he hadn't shaved in a while. But his mouth pouted a little naturally, softening his traits, and his straight nose a face that was quite handsome, now I came to think of it. I blushed at the thought, and cleared my throat, trying to focus.

I opened the lid of the box, and took the first photo album out of it. It was old, and it smelled like old things smell, and when I turned to the first page it was like a jump in time. Gramps had been so pretty when she was young. Bright, big eyes and soft features, always dressed well, her hair perfectly styled on her head. She told me that when she went out to dance, she kept getting demands from all the men in the room. I couldn't doubt it. "That's her" I muttered to James, pointing Gramps in her young glamour, shooting him a quick look. He seemed captivated by the pictures, and his hand reached the picture, as if it would bring it to life. "You look a lot like her" he said quietly, and I looked at him still, feeling my cheeks reddened. "Thank you."

"Do you have any picture from the Modern Marvels Expo ? It was in 1942" he suddenly asked, straightening up to look at me. I was then aware of our proximity, and I chased the thought away quickly, pulling the box closer so I could search through it. I pulled out an album that was dated "1937-1949" and settled in on my knees before I started to search through it. Fortunately, Gramps had always been thorough and had dated every picture, or almost. _1940, fun in the Garden. 1941, dance with Molly. _"There" he jerked, stopping my hand from flicking the page by grabbing the album. And then I could see the picture too.

She was there, dressed in a pretty, pale dress. There was another girl at her side, Molly, an old friend of hers, that she had told me about. There was also, next to Molly, a rather short young man, with blonde hair and a shy smile. Who he was I did not know. And next to Gramps, a young man, with a striking, charming smile, wearing some kind of military uniform, his eyes bright with pride and joy. I glimpsed at the man beside me – that's who he was looking at. "Is that your grandfather ?" He jumped a little, shooting me quick look, clearing his throat. "Yes – that's him." "You look him too" I said vaguely, and suddenly James stood up and walked away, every bit of him looking lost and out of breath.

I stared at him, dumbfounded. "Are you alright ?" He didn't answer, only looked at the window. "It's stopped raining" he declared in a flat voice, and I glanced outside. "Indeed" I said softly, most intrigued by his behaviour. He looked… shaken. As if the picture had threw him back into bad memories. Maybe he had lied to me – maybe his grandfather had passed, and he was searching his life to appease his grief. I felt lost, unsure of what to do or say. "I should go" he said, his tone suddenly harsh and quick, like he had remembered an appointment he was late to. "Oh – yes, of course" I said, my voice small. He nodded. "Thank you. For the pictures." "No problem. Do you want some, for your grandfather ?" He frowned, and shook his head, almost racing to the door. "Wait" I called, for the second time that day. Quickly, I pulled the photograph from 1942 from the album, stood up and walked to him. "Take it. You look like you need it" I said, handing it to him. He took it, and I noticed for the first time that he was wearing gloves, and without another word, he pushed his cap on his head, darkening his face, opened the door wide and ran outside.

I observed him walk away. His steps were wide, and in a matter of seconds he had turned at the corner, out of my sight. I closed my door and breathed out. What an odd character he was. But with all the feelings and questions he had left me with, one thing overpowered the others – a strong, dreadful curiosity. I wondered who he was, why he had really knocked on my door, why that photograph had troubled him so. I sighed sharply. I would probably never even know. I would probably never see him again. But somewhere inside me, I wish that I did.


End file.
